


Frankie Boy

by shamefulshameless



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Post-Canon, it's not billy x frank i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 19:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13254873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamefulshameless/pseuds/shamefulshameless
Summary: Frank doesn't take it seriously enough, the news that Billy Russo has woken up. He doesn't spring to action, he doesn't address the red flags waving. Pete Castiglione doesn't grapple with the old friend of a dead man.But Jigsaw does.





	Frankie Boy

**Author's Note:**

> i was struck by the character of billy, and what his next move would be after the events of season one (especially since the cia and homeland agreed to "burn" him publically) 
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my first story in this fandom... a lil nervous a lil excited

It happens in the middle of the night, and the officer on duty is so tired that he almost doesn't notice. After Midland Circle, it's been all hands on deck at the NYPD, and with the state of the room's sole occupant remaining so reliable, so unchanging, it was decided only one officer would be needed to keep watch after all these months.

One officer and a strip of red tape around the bed.

So when it happens, when the heart monitor speeds up, when a muffled gasp permeates the harsh sterility of the room, Officer Ingram has to blink a few times, has to stretch his neck before going to see what the fuss is about.

He makes sure not to cross the red tape.

He wanders over to the monitor, beeping frantically, and only then looks at the _thing_ on the bed. The pile of gauze.

The pile of gauze looks back.

The pile of gauze has black eyes, that send shivers down the spine of a man who's faced worse. (Or thought he had.)

Ingram stumbles out of the room, trying not to visibly shake under the gaze that seems to suck all the light out of the room.

As soon as he's past the threshold, his walkie's in his hand.

"This is Ingram, at Metro General," he sputters.

"Russo is awake."

 

* * *

 

 

Frank has been having more and more trouble getting out of bed. But not for the old reasons, not because of nightmares or Maria's fingertips on his back that he swore were real. For other reasons. For human reasons.

He's tired. His bed is soft. Work is uninviting.

He almost wants to laugh at his own lethargy, the abnormality in normalcy.

He hasn't done anything like a normal person in years. But here he is, dragging himself into a life.

Frank has a routine, one that consists of long hours, lots of therapy, and absolutely no bloodshed.

He and Curtis work out little goals for him to work on, too.

This week, the Post-It on his wall says, _I will make conversation with three new people._

It's baby steps, and deep breaths, and life.

The first new person was a diner waitress. Maybe he's cheating a little by choosing a service worker, but he makes a point to ask her at least one personal question. He actually smiles when she tells him excitedly that yes, she has two kids- and wouldn't you know it, they're _both_ graduating from college this semester.

  
The second new person was almost a little boy, barely ten, who'd gotten lost on the sidewalk. Frank couldn't spot his parents anywhere, and apparently neither could the kid, judging on how wildly his eyes darted back and forth down the block. Frank was halfway to his side when a woman ran up to scoop him into her arms. _I was so worried_ , Frank hears her whisper into over and over into his hair.

As he turns away, Frank can't help but think it may have been for the best. His shoes had been too much like Frankie's, like his little boy's. Probably for the best.

And they're with him, of course. Not like they were. They don't claw at the inside of his chest anymore, they don't well up behind his eyeballs. They aren't immediate. Their deaths are an answered question now.

If The Punisher had been an active volcano, then Pete Castiglione is a dormant one.

 _Isn't that just a mountain?_ Karen thinks loudly in his head.

And then there's Karen, as much a part of his routine as group. She loves to do this, speak in his ear, make him think of her without even trying. Her voice comes in spurts, to tease him. The Karen on his shoulder is a moral compass as much as his own personal bully, there to admonish him for slipping up or for never, ever coming to see her.

He keeps meaning to make a Post-It note for that.

 

Despite the slow start, Frank makes it to work twenty-five minutes early. He works on the water, at the loading docks.

(Sometimes he puts extra effort in to take the long way and avoid the spot a few docks down where Frank Castle blew straight to hell, and sometimes he walks right to it and stares it down for an hour or so. Depends on his mood.)

He's unloading crates right up to his lunch break- a slow day today. His coworkers hate days where the job is as monotonous as this, but Frank finds a certain comfort in the repetition. It's like another form of therapy. Somewhere in between sharing his feelings to a circle of near-strangers and slamming a hammer against a wall for six months straight.

He's halfway through his sandwich when-

"Hey, Pete!" he hears a voice call out.

He turns from his perch overlooking the river to the sound. Standing twenty feet behind him is Elliott, a man who definitely considers him a friend, and probably is one, even if Frank is reluctant to use the word. Elliott has been stuck working this pier for fifteen years, as he likes to gripe, but always smiles as he complains. Frank thinks he probably likes the monotony, too.

Elliott's holding his cell phone just away from his ear. "You got a phone call," he says.

Frank furrows his brow. "Must be a mistake. Can't be."

"I don't think so, man," Elliott sounds unconvinced. "This guy just described you like he's lookin' right at ya."

He's been here before.

Frank stands and closes the distance, placing the phone to his ear like it's about to blow. "David," he huffs as quietly as he can, "You can't go around callin' innocent people's phones to get to me, you know that shit's-"

"Yes! Yeah, very unethical, very wrong, won't do it again." Micro sounds rushed. "I wouldn't have to if you just agreed to get a real phone like everyone else in the world you live in, _Pete_."

"Alright, let's get it over with, then. What is it?"

Micro hesitates. "Russo's up."

 

* * *

 

 

Billy doesn't particularly want to open his eyes. Firstly because even his fucking eyelids hurt, hurt, _hurt_ like there's still glass sewn into every cell.

Secondly, because he remembers everything. There isn't a moment of hazy confusion before it all comes rushing back. The moment he's conscious, he remembers everything.

His name is Billy Russo. Born to a strung out whore who is laying in a hospital bed, too. He joined the military. Met Frank. Betrayed Frank. Killed Frank. Got drunk at Frank's grave after Schoonover killed him again. Met Dinah. Shot Dinah. Set Frank free. Killed Rawlins. Almost won. Cut up those two kids. Almost won. Took a bullet to the face, gave a bullet to the leg. Almost won. A blade to his wrist. Almost won. Even more to his stupid ass fucking vest with the skull, that tacky goddamn skull. Almost won. Until- he'd almost won until- 

He can feel the stitches snaking their way across what used to be his face.

So no, opening his eyes sounds like an uncomfortable welcome to this new world he's going to have to forge through. This won't be the planet he's lived on for over thirty years. This will be the Earth of the new Billy Russo. No more fast deals, no more women, no more money, no more.

He doesn't have much of a choice in the matter, going off what he's sure is under these bandages- what is left of the only thing he's ever loved.

A grotesque silhouette he will cut, this new Billy Russo.

A monster, wearing a five thousand dollar suit.

A new Punisher, walking the streets with a single purpose: to rid the world of the old one.

He opens his eyes. He breathes. He scares away the cop who is surely here to scare him.

Good, he thinks. It's already begun.

 

* * *

 

 

Frank shifts his weight from foot to foot, can't help but look furtively over his shoulder.

He clears his throat."Yeah, well. We always figured Russo'd be up eventually. Lookin' forward to the trial. That all?" He doesn't want to do Punisher business on Pete Castiglione's dock. Feels disrespectful somehow, after the vigilante had been gone this long.

"Not quite; not at all," Micro says. "The NYPD have been buzzing about it all day over email, and Frank- _Pete_ , shit. Pete. I've just been thinking that- that he's a lot like you-"

Frank doesn't get his lips all the way parted to protest before Micro corrects himself.

"-I just mean he was trained like you-"

Frank protests anyway.

"David. This is done. We're done. Wherever they dump that piece of shit, I don't care, it's over now. All we can do is hope his cell's got a mirror. I'm done."

He hangs up the phone before Micro gets another word in.

He tries to deny to himself that he can't stop thinking about Russo, but there's that centering voice in his head telling him that lying to himself is pointless. That little voice that sounds like her voice, every time. He thinks it might be his conscience.

Frank had refused to ask Micro anything else. But of course he wanted to know, needed to, even. How much does he remember? Is he functional? What does he fucking look like? Does Madani get what she wants? Does she get the collar?

Despite his finger twitching, begging to pick up a phone, any phone, and call, or the urge to bolt to Homeland headquarters and ask himself, he stays rooted to the spot. Pete does his work and goes home, like a good soldier. No, not a soldier, but an ordinary man with a routine.

The walk back to his apartment seems longer and colder than usual. Frank passes a newsstand, and can't help himself. He stops and searches for what he knows the front page of the _Bulletin_ will be.

**MILITARY DRUG LORD WILLIAM RUSSO FACES INDICTMENT AFTER COMA**

**By Mitchell Ellison**

Frank buys the paper, he allows himself that much. To feel like he's not falling off the normalcy wagon, he makes small talk with the man behind the register.

So that's two new people this week.

He doesn't read a word of the article until he's home, and pretends once he's there that he doesn't rip it out of his bag with a ferocity that's too much Frank and not enough Pete. He remembers Marion James' words to him at Madani's bedside- Wilson and Russo are the only suspects anyone needs right now. Not for Cerberus. Not for the Castles. Just for the drugs, for his work with Schoonover, another piece of shit who won't be named here. Frank, who doesn't like the justice system as it is, feels this is a particularly hollow victory.

The first paragraph reads:

_After being apprehended by Homeland officers last December, William "Billy" Russo has spent the last months deep in a coma at Metro-General, until last night, when he awoke suddenly. Details are being disclosed at this time as to the state of his condition, but an indictment is expected later today. Russo allegedly trafficked an undetermined amount of heroin out of Afghanistan during his time as an active duty Marine, working alone, and resulting in the deaths of as many as five law enforcement agents, as confirmed at the time by the CIA. Russo, the founder and President of now-defunct private military contractor Anvil, had a reportedly close friendship with the still-at-large vigilante known as The Punisher, but no evidence of any collusion with Frank Castle has been found. Russo was born-_

Frank skips to something below, a smaller headline that catches his eye. He hadn't noticed it before, but he sees it now as if it were written in blood.

**A NOTE FROM THE BULLETIN**

He looks at the byline, even though he doesn't have to.

**By Karen Page**

_As many readers know, Lewis Wilson, the bomber responsible for over a dozen deaths last December, targeted me personally while on his rampage through our city. I communicated with him several times- through print, over the phone, and then, terrifyingly, in person. Up close, he was a shaking, uncontrollable loose cannon. He was someone who felt let down by the country he served, and sought retribution in the form of human suffering. I feel no sympathy for him, but will never forget the fear I saw in his eyes that day. It was something deeply upsetting in its sincerity, and ultimately informative in its destruction. I met William Russo only once, on that very same day._

Frank feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. A consequence of growing it out, perhaps, is that his fear can manifest physically, against his will.

_It was a brief and friendly meeting. His company had been hired to protect Senator Stan Ori, whom I was preparing to interview. Russo escorted me from the elevator to the senator's room. He struck me as just another handsome rich kid, all smiles and implied winks as he teased (yes, teased) me about my history and my methods. Was this murderer, this drug lord flirting with me? At the time I thought so. Looking back I have to wonder if he wasn't throwing me off his scent, the way a good liar does. Either way, what matters is not whether or not this reprehensible human being was trying to score my number. That is not why I'm writing this op-ed. I'm writing, yet again, in defense of Frank Castle._

Frank starts. What the hell is she doing?

_You may recall after that same fateful day, my piece in which I chronicled Castle's rescue of me from Lewis Wilson. How he convinced him, singlehandedly, to let me go, and how he slipped away before I could say a word to him._

He can't help but snort at that. Page, covering her ass, like she didn't shoot Wilson in the foot, like she didn't save Frank's ass in that damn elevator that he swears sometimes he sees when he blinks too hard in the sun, and the silver reflects off the water, just like the metal backing of-

_I am not friends with Frank Castle._

Huh. That isn't really a lie.

_But William Russo was, as the public is frantic to remind each other, The Punisher's friend, and a criminal of another class altogether. I don't dispute Castle's criminality, and I never have. I am merely writing this today to remind you all to trust the facts you are given. If it comes to light that Castle was involved in Russo's evil, which I frankly doubt, then trust the fact as it is given. But no one in this city has seen hide nor hair of Frank Castle since before William Russo was apprehended, and I am fairly sure you would all like to keep it that way._

Frank reads the editorial several more times before trying to make full sense of what it means. How did she pull that off? He pictures Karen storming her boss' office, demanding to defend the indefensible. She didn't need to, but she pestered her way into helping him, in whatever way she could.

_Yet again._

He's read all of her pieces since the carousel, so the one she's referring to must have been published before then. What was he doing while she wrote it? While she was hunched over her laptop typing frantically about his virtues, he could have been tied to a chair, with his rib making a new home in his left lung. Or pointing a rifle at Curtis' window, stalking his prey.

He folds up the paper and puts it in his shirt drawer. Like it's a secret, somehow. Maybe if he tucks her away in there, she'll be safe.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part two coming soon! (and feel free to comment. please comment. PLEASE comment pl)


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